After spending a fun weekend in Boston partying with friends, I decided to take things slow on Monday and recharge my batteries by vomiting about once an hour for 12 hours straight. You might call it "food poisoning," but in many very expensive day spas they would call it "purifying."
So often we enjoy food on the way down, but do we ever really get an extended chance to savor it on the way up? Herewith, my reviews of everything I vomited up yesterday, in sequential order:
1) A breakfast wrap eaten at 10 p.m. the night before. My first thought as this savory egg, sausage and salsa wrap barreled down the one-way street that is my esophagus: really, body? You had nine hours to digest this thing, and this is all you could do? But after that disappointment ebbed, I enjoyed the soft texture and the delightful presentation as it floated in the toilet bowl. The eggy aftertaste lingered.
2) Home fries from the same meal. I was pleased to discover that my stomach has separate compartments for main courses and side dishes. I was also mystified to see that the potato skins had been completely separated from the starchy bits. What was my body doing to those potatoes? It seemed to have plans, like it was getting ready to mash them. Maybe my stomach was having my spleen over for dinner and it wanted to serve Shepherd's Pie. But as far as a bodily discharge, the potatoes were disappointing -- they were visually unappealing, and the slightly tangy taste had me reaching for the toothpaste just as soon as I was done convulsing on the floor of my bathroom.
3) Water. I drank water in my attempt to "stay hydrated," because as every Gatorade ad will tell you, life is not possible without hydration. With most of the food gone from my body, I started vomiting water at around 1 p.m. It was a thoroughly unremarkable experience, but I would learn to appreciate it, because of ...
4) What I hope was bile. Smooth passage, I'll grant you that. But it had an unpleasant odor, a thoroughly unappetizing yellowish tint and an aftertaste that very quickly set up shop in my sinuses. Not pleasant in the least.
5) Nothing. At around 2 p.m. I was officially empty, and you think my body would take some time off after a job well done. Well, my body is an overachiever, and so for two hours it tried to vomit up nothing. You may have experienced this yourself, and if so then you know what a distinct pleasure it is to feel a horrible retching sensation for one minute without any appreciable results, and then break out in a cold sweat. I've never run a marathon, but if I had to, I bet this is what I'd feel like at the finish line. Minus the exhilaration of having accomplished something impressive.
6) Crystal Light Rasbperry Lemonade. Working on the assumption that vomiting something is better than nothing, I went for Raspberry Lemonade. I knew it would be coming back up, but I figured it might taste OK, even if it got up into my nostrils. It was a good theory, but in practice, the stomach acid sort of spoils the flavor a bit. So I switched back to ...
7) Water. You can't go wrong with water. Trust me on this. It is the best thing in the world to throw up.
All told it was a great day. I've had lazy days, sure. But it's so rare anymore that I get to spend the entire day lying in one position, moving only the ten feet to the bathroom. No reading, no working, no writing ... just sitting very still, and turning inside out. Sometimes it's nice to stop and smell the roses. Note to self: Next time eat some roses.
How sad is this ...
My brother Dave instant messages me today. Here's the exchange, which took a grand total of 15 seconds:
Dave: Saving throw vs. death = failed
Chris: huh?
Chris: Did Gary Gygax die?
Dave: Yes
I don't know what's sadder, that Dave chose to ping me that way or that I figured it out within seconds.
Box Office
"Semi-Pro" tanked at the box office with only $15 million in tickets for its opening week. I think people get a little bit suspicious of a movie when it seems like more time went into the marketing than the actual writing and shooting of the movie. Will Ferrell has been in beer ads, deodorant ads, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, a Comedy Central special ... and all that added up to no one wanting to see the movie.
Stack that up with the total failure of "Walk Hard," and maybe people are starting to sour a bit on semi-scripted movies? Who knows ...
I very rarely use the word "brilliant," but this blog is brilliant. And I'm not just saying that because 87 percent of the entries seem to apply directly to one of my ex-girlfriends.
I'd say more, but just go read it. Thanks to Joe Randazzo for the tip.
Movie Review: Nanking
This is the feel-good date movie of the year. It's a simple true story about some plucky Westerners trying to prevent the rape and murder of hundreds of thousands of Chinese people in 1937. Take your sweetheart to a screening of "Nanking," then split a bottle of red wine and watch the magic happen. You can open your post-movie conversation with: "Finally, a Holocaust that doesn't involve white people!" It will show your date that you are sensitive to other cultures. If that doesn't grease the skids, nothing will.
It actually is a sad and amazing story, one that serves as reminder of how fundamentally awful humans can be. The Japanese army killed something like 200,000 Chinese at Nanking and raped 20,000 or so women, in the space of weeks. A lot of the deaths weren't in combat, but mass executions involving bayonetting, machine-gunning, burning ... and they killed civilians and soldiers alike. The rapes involved everything from children to old women.
The documentary is a chronicle of those weeks, built from archival video, interviews with survivors (including some totally remorseless Japanese soldiers, which is hard to watch), and then various actors (Woody Harrelson, for example) reading the letters and diaries of the Western samaratins who stayed behind to set up a "safety zone" for refugees. The Japanese wouldn't dare to attack a national of another country, and so those 20 people protected thousands, by staying behind when everyone else left. Their leaders (or at least the most prominent ones in the movie) were a Nazi, an American surgeon and an American missionary.
The whole mess had a pretty profound impact on Chinese identity, their attitude toward Japan ... you don't get the grander historical scope from the movie, but you do get an absolute gut punch as far as the human impact goes. People were crying in the theater. I don't really choke up (except for "Finding Nemo") but there were definitely moments where I was squirming or horrified at what was being recounted.
Anyway, if you're so inclined ... it's a different approach to documentary and a fairly impactful movie. A lot of people love yapping about America's abuse of power, and I have no doubt that horrible things have been done in the name of the United States. But this is abuse on a scale that's hard to fathom. Take what you will from it.
I Have a Question
I saw "Nanking" in a special screening at the National Archives, with producer Ted "I Own the Capitals" Leonsis there to answer questions. It was my personal fantasy that someone ask a question like, "speaking of rape, how about that raping the Capitals put on the Bruins the other day?"
But at a free DC event, you get a free DC event crowd, so that question was not forthcoming. Instead, you get a lot of a) old people; b) cheap people; and c) people who want you to know that they are smart but haven't been able to find an outlet outside of the scholastic world. Remember, America: lots of tax dollars and grant money are going every year to fund free cultural programs for withered NPR listeners in the nation's capital. (And me -- I fall under B.)
As for A and C, their questions are great. If you ever watch book-readings on C-SPAN (and who doesn't?) you know what I'm talking about -- in the Q&A afterward someone raises their hand to "ask a question," then they rip off a 10-minute speech about their personal beliefs that they've clearly been preparing for a week: "Yes, congratulations on such a fine movie, which was completely fatally flawed by its inability to take into account the dehumanization of the blahbity blah blah I went to grad school." I'm paraphrasing.
Fortunately the moderator, National Archivist Allen Weinstein, was having none of it, probably because he had to get back to his crypt. If you ever get the chance to see this guy in action, do it. I have no idea how anyone with such an impressive resume can seem so tired. If he had busted out an ear trumpet I really wouldn't have blinked. Astonishing.
On Saturday, April 5, I'll be performing "I Take Requests" at the DC Improv Lounge. It's a really fun show that is built on a dare -- I do stand-up on subjects that have been given to me by friends, family and strangers over the last two years.
It's more than stand-up, though -- you're also going to get some peachy keen videos and a trivia contest, because I aim to please. And just like the last time I did the show (October 2007), there's a top-secret Grand Finale in which I challenge myself. Last time I played a trombone duet with myself -- this time I'm taking the music a whole new direction. If you want to know more you'll have to see the show to find out what I mean.
The show sold out in October, and on what should be a busy night at the Improv, I'm expecting it'll sell out again -- if you want to get your tickets ($10) online, you can order them here.
I really enjoy putting this show together, and I think it'll be a great time. If you're free April 5, come on by and say hello.
Responding to my illness report from Tuesday, my brother Dave volunteers the following:
"If you've got to vomit something up, it might as well be ice cream. Let
me tell you, the best tasting puke I ever had was right after I ate a
bowl of peppermint ice cream."
That's my brother. Yup.
Shoeless Joe
I hosted a show at Johns Hopkins on Thursday, and one of the student performers didn't wear shoes.
There is a shoeless guy on every campus. EVERY campus. Often he is Australian. For that guy, it's not enough to be the guy who doesn't shower, or the guy who wears shorts no matter how cold it is. No, he needs to show that he is a completely free-spirited individual by turning his back on an invention that most of mankind has embraced for the better part of 3,000 years.
Does shoeless guy really believe he is being an original, when every campus has a shoeless guy? Does shoeless guy honestly have no concern whatsoever about what other people think? Does he find shoes that uncomfortable? What wisdom can shoeless guy share with us, the shod?
And at what point does shoeless guy stop fighting the system and start wearing shoes? Probably when he really wants a Slurpee.
Here's to you, shoeless guy.
Hmm ...
Maybe shoeless guys never shoe up. Maybe, just maybe, they go to the same secluded island that's holding every 7-foot white center from a second-tier college basketball team. Because you never see those guys in public, either.
I bet you the shoeless guys pick things out of the centers' teeth. Like the alligator birds. Nature is cool.
Jason Statham's greatest gift as an actor, hands down, is headbutting. He looks like he's really good at it. If you or I snapped off a headbutt, we'd be curled up on the floor with a splitting headache for hours after. Jason Statham, on the other hand, just looks like he could headbutt 20 to 30 people in a row and then do the New York Times Sunday Crossword. Assuming he did crosswords, which he probably doesn't, because he's too busy making time with the ladies of the guys he just killed with his cranial plate.
He doesn't get to uncork a headbutt until the final five minutes of "The Bank Job," but it's in there. Also, the entire movie hinges on photos of Princess Margaret in a threesome, and it's a sort-of-true story that involves tunneling. What's not to like? An unqualified thumbs up.
Movie Review: Let's Get Lost
Jazz trumpet player Chet Baker died in 1988, falling out of his Amsterdam hotel room, probably while whacked out of his mind on heroin or cocaine or both.
In honor of 20th anniversary of that special occasion, you might be able to catch a re-release of "Let's Get Lost," the 1988 documentary about the man. It's pretty neat stuff. The guy was an adonis -- he had movie-star looks, undeniable charisma and a ridiculously smooth sound that was easy for 1950s listeners to warm to.
He also had a crushing heroin habit, so by the time they filmed the documentary in 1987/88, he looked like someone had beaten his face in with Charles Bronson. By which I mean someone had picked up Charles Bronson by the ankles and then swung his face into Baker's repeatedly until bits of it started to embed.
The deterioration is fascinating, as is trying to get a bead on Baker. One minute he's relating a story in a slow, measured pace that mirrors his music. Then you have footage of someone (an ex-wife, his kids) telling you what a manipulative S.O.B. he is. Then, a few minutes later, another person tells you what a liar the previous someone is (and that they are also angry with Chet).He left a lot of awful relationships and broken people in his wake, but his expressions are so glacial at times that you have to really read between the lines to guess how he actually feels about anything -- from his ex-wives to his drug addiction to his time in jail to ... anything.
It took me about half an hour to get into this movie, but once you get used to the vibe it's very engaging. If you like jazz at all you'll want to catch this.
Want to see photos from the roller derby? You don't? Well, tough.
First up we've got uber-ref Johnny Zebra getting ready to start a match, or as they say at the derby, a "jam." Some people might say he is "pumping up the jam." But I am not one of those people, and you shouldn't be either.
Next, we have a few of the Secretaries of Hate following a wipeout. I think that, with a few years of training and several hundred thousand dollars of equipment, I could be a good sports photographer. As it stands, I have a 35mm Rebel that does a crappy job in the low light of the Armory, so I ran this sucker through a random Photoshop filter to make it look marginally more interesting.
Behold the mascot for the Demon Cats. I am not lying, even a bit, when I say that right I took this photo, he disappeared in a cloud of brimstone. Either that or one of the many fat guys in the audience farted. Probably the latter, now that I think about it.
What happened here is, I tried a double exposure. So instead of getting one crappy image with low light, I got two on the SAME PRINT. But with Photoshop, now we know what it would look like if Monet painted a roller derby. Which he totally would have given the chance.
The next three shots have to do with the Secretaries of Hate. First, their loyal fans wave the banner. Second, Joe Randazzo channels his hate next to the banner. And third, the adorable "Hater Tots" work the crowd.
Man, my life is interesting. Not as interesting as some of the people you'd find at a roller derby, but interesting.
I originally made this for the YouTube "Sketchies" contest, which required a video involving a road trip and a musical instrument that was 3 minutes or less. Before I had the chance to edit this thing down or reshoot anything, I got sick. So no contest.
But I still like the end result.
Shadwell? I Hardly Know Well!
I was cruising through Charlottesville last Saturday, within miles of the Thomas Jefferson birthplace. Considering that I once drove 2 hours to see a field with a picnic table where Millard Fillmore was born, I didn't really have much choice. I had to stop.
BEHOLD THE GLORY!
It's a sign. On the shoulder of US-250. The only thing my head is blocking is a great view of some weeds. I think there's an empty field somewhere with an archaeological dig where the house used to be, but I don't think you can go there.
So congratulations, Millard Fillmore. You have something on Thomas Jefferson. La'Chiam.
Everything's Coming Up Roses
The great vomit debate continues! From my superfriend Don: "The worst things I ever threw up were orange juice (acid with acid) and a pizza Hot Pocket. The smell of the hot pocket almost made me sick for a year."
This blog is like the Algonquin Roundtable. Please e-mail your least favorite vomit items, in the name of science. In the name of humanity.
I'm in Winston-Salem, in a non-smoking room in a Motel 6 with cigarette burns on the comforter. The Motel 6 is next door to an adult superstore and just down the street from a mobile home sales lot. The sign on the sales lot says "We sell dreams."
False advertising? No! Remember: nightmares are dreams too!
This reminds me of the gym in my neighborhood, called "Results: The Gym." Not to be confused with "Results: The AIDS Testing Superstore."
That is a great name, because it offers the hope of ripped abs without explicitly promising them. If you get a hernia trying to bench 50 extra pounds to impress the hot girl that you're convinced made eye contact with you on the treadmill, and the pain is so bad that you lose bowel control but are unable to walk so you have to writhe in your own filth until paramedics show up to carry you out, guess what? That is technically a "result."
My Bad
This has nothing to do with the subject, but my phone just rang at midnight. It was a wrong number, but when I told the woman on the other end, she corrected me: "No! It's not! This is Pete's room!"
Really, what was I thinking? Why would I just assume that I know who's staying in the room I'm in, which I paid for? Which reminds me: Pete, if you're reading this, you owe me $25 for your half. Don't be that guy.
The New Yorker
Here's what disturbs me most about Eliot Spitzer: I could do no work and live for four years on $80,000. If I budgeted in hookers, I'm pretty sure I could get affordable hookers on a regular basis and still live well for at least two years.
For $4,300 I could take the financial worry out of a whole year of being a professional comedian. That's 365 days of relative happiness. Eliot Spitzer got a few hours.
Forget that it's illegal to get a prostitute. The guy has horrible economic judgement. He shouldn't be running a state.
A man enters a Steve & Barry's in Roanoke, Virginia, lured by a sign indicating that all items in the store are $8.98 or less. Once inside, after selecting several t-shirts and two pairs of cargo shorts, he notices that the $8.98 extends to Starbury shoes. Though he does not need new shoes, he sees a pair that could, in dim light, pass for Sketchers. Grabbing a box marked with his shoe size (10), he heads for the register. But a sudden pang of doubt compels him to stop suddenly, and try on at least one of the shoes. It seems to fit his right foot, if a little snugly.
On arrival at his Washington, D.C., home, the man decides to wear the Starburys out on the town. But he is shocked -- SHOCKED! -- to discover that the his left foot will not fit into the shoe at all.
On closer inspection, it is discovered that, though the box clearly says size 10, the right shoe is a size 9.5, and the left shoe is a size 9. How this would ever come to be is beyond the man.
Though the shoes cost only $9, the man immediately makes plans to return them at a Steve & Barry's in Detroit later in the week.
Tune in next week for more AMAZING TALES OF ASTONISHING CHEAPNESS!
Why is Chester Cheetah suddenly British? It was bad enough when the Geico gecko switched from a high-class British gecko that resented Geico to a cockney gecko that loves it.
Is it too much to ask for a little consistency from animated salespeople? Like we don't have enough variables in the world already.
Boycott Cheetoes until Chester goes back to being a semi-burned out American hipster. You owe it to the children.
Vote or Die
OK, maybe "die" isn't really the word I'm looking for ...
But anyhow, I entered a YouTube contest sponsored by TurboTax; the general idea is to do a funny video about taxes. I did a one-minute sketch.
Voting isn't too much of a pain (a la the Lucky 21 contest, for anyone who remembers that atrocity). 1) Go to the Tax Laugh page. 2) Click on the "vote" tab at the top. 3) You can then search for my name or screen name (Chris White or unclejam76) where it says "search for a video."
Once my video pops up, just click on the thumbs up (if you happen to like it, of course). You can vote once a day. And spread the word! Thanks!
If you are ever chopping up habanero peppers, as soon as you are done, immediately have a friend chop off your hands. This will prevent you from touching your lips over the next six hours.
If you choose to keep your hands and then accidentally touch your lips, do not, as part of your response to the burning pain, rub your eyes.
If you do rub your eyes, have that friend kick you in the crotch immediately. It might take your mind off the fact that your eyes are on fire.
But, and this is VERY important, if you are kicked in the crotch, don't put your hands anywhere near the affected area.
Not that any of this happened to me. I'm just saying, is all.
And oh yeah ...
Come see my show April 5 at the DC Improv lounge. For all we know, the world might end April 6. And if that happens, and you WEREN'T at my show, what are you going to talk about around the water cooler in the burning fires of hell? Sports? I don't think so.
Yes We Canton
I'm kicking off a 11-day road trip (Detroit, Indianapolis and South Bend) with a day trip to CANTON!
I hear it's lovely this time of year. And oh yeah, McKinley is buried there. So look for pictures in the near future.
And not to get too far ahead of myself, but you might get a Gerald Ford writeup before this trip is done. I'm not making any promises, but I know what my reading public likes, and I'm totally willing to ignore their likes and just write about dead presidents.
Funky Presidents
Assuming I get to both McKinley and Ford (and Benjamin Harrison's grave, for the record), after this trip I'll have seen at least one site for 24 of the 43 presidents. That leaves me just one president shy of membership in the International Dork Society. Here are other possibilities for 2008:
1) Herbert Hoover. He had his summer retreat in the Shenandoah Mountains, about two hours from my home.
2) James Madison. Montpelier is only 90 minutes from DC, but it has been under restoration. I think that wraps this spring.
3) Dwight Eisenhower. Had a home in Gettysburg, Pa., two hours from DC.
4) Zachary Taylor. There's a signpost that marks the approximate location of his birth in Barboursville, Virgina. This would be lame, but the only other Taylor site is his grave in Louisville.
But here's the big one:
5) New York/New England. I have plotted out a route for a weeklong vacation that would let me see sites for John Adams, John Quincy Adams, Calvin Coolidge, Chester Arthur and Franklin Pierce. If I'm feeling super ambitious I could tack Martin Van Buren on to that trip, along with secondary sites for JFK, Teddy Roosevelt and FDR.
If I did all of those, I'd have seen at least one site for 34 presidents; 35 if you count the fact that I visited the Hermitage (Andrew Jackson) before I started this project. Take out the 4 living presidents, and all that would be left is Nixon and Reagan (California), Truman (Missouri), and Harding (Ohio). Yikes. If you can figure out a way for me to make money off this crap, please share. I'm all ears.
If you can tear yourself away from live online chats with all those hot babes in low-cut tops from the ads that keep popping up on MySpace (they are real girls, and you do have a shot at them), please help me be not poor by voting for my TurboTax video entry.
It's only a minute long, and I guarantee at least a mild chuckle. If you do not find it at all amusing, I will be your personal slave for one minute, so that we can be square again.
Just go to the TaxLaugh page, click on the "vote" tab, and then search for "unclejam76," which is my awesome screen name. If you like the video, then click on the thumbs-up icon.
Thanks! If I win the $10,000, there will be a party. Details to come.
Mount McKinley? I hardly know him!
You know what they say about guys with big tombs. Behold our third-greatest president, William McKinley:
You're looking at 75 feet of hot pink Massachusetts granite, which puts Bill's tomb just a notch behind Lincoln's and within a stone's throw of Grant's. Undeserved company, you say? Bah! Lincoln and Grant may have held the country together, but McKinley saved the union from its deadliest, most nefarious foes:
Spain, and cheap imported goods.
He was born in Niles, Ohio, the seventh of nine Irish/Scottish halfbreeds -- a mix that cemented his fighting spirit and hatred of underwear. He volunteered for the Civil War, attended law school in New York and then moved to Canton at his sister's behest. He ran for Congress at the age of 33 and saw seven glorious terms in the House before becoming governor of Ohio; though anticipating retirement in 1896, he answered his party's call as the GOP presidential nominee. Under guidance from McKinley's firm hand, we beat back the subhuman mongrels of the Spanish empire, driving the white devils from many of their strongholds and guaranteeing the future of the Florida Marlins farm system, and a democratic Cuba, in the process.
Then some nutjob shot him. And sure, that seems sad. But it made this cool photo possible!
You can learn all this not too much more at the museum right next to the tomb, which claims to have the "largest collection of McKinleyana" in the world. That amounts to one room with some old furniture, a few cases of campaign buttons and dolls of McKinley and his wife, Ida. The dolls, by the way, are animatronic and on a motion sensor, and if you don't know that they're animatronic, and you're the only person visiting, and you have your back turned when they suddenly start talking, you will probably almost crap your pants. So heads up.
McKinely had a home in Canton -- he famously conducted a winning "front porch" campaign in the city -- but that building is long gone, with the lumber converted (really) into park shelters and benches by the city in the 1930s. The site of the home is now a library with a historical marker (and a giant sun-catcher) out front.
Honestly, without the help of a house tour by a period-costumed guide, the man is still a total mystery to me. But that would never keep you from ...
FUN MCKINLEY FACTS!
McKinley was the last Civil War veteran to become president. Nicknamed "The Major," he survived four years of the Civil War without a scratch -- including the bloodiest day ever on American soil at Antietam -- only to be shot twice at an exposition in Buffalo by a single anarchist working alone. Contrast that with his commanding officer, Rutherford B. Hayes, who was shot five times during the Civil War, but not at all during his presidency. Wacky stuff, huh?
The exposition's theme was "electricity," and one of the displays was an X-Ray machine made by Thomas Edison. When the .32 bullet in McKinley's body could not be located, doctors did not want to use the X-Ray machine on the president for fear of possible side-effects. McKinley ended up dying of gangrene from the infected wounds. Stack that up with fellow Ohioan James A. Garfield, who also had an assassin's bullets lodged in his body -- Alexander Graham Bell had tried to use a metal detector of his own devising but was unsuccessful in locating the bullets. So: Insane Killers 2, Ohio Presidents and Their Famous Inventor Friends 0.
Leon Czolgosz (voted the Most Difficult to Spell Trivia Answer of the Millennium) was eventually killed by electric chair. So at least Edison got SOME revenge.
During the Civil War, McKinley joined the Freemasons in Winchester, Virginia. Why any cult planning world domination would have a chapter in Winchester is anybody's guess.
The McKinley Tariff (enacted when he was in Congress) caused massive price inflation and intense economic woes throughout the nation. And somehow, the Democrats still couldn't beat this guy.
Rose to prominence largely under the guidance of campaign manager (and millionaire) Mark Hanna, a man whom Karl Rove has openly expressed admiration for and patterned himself after. Hanna's bold tactics earned him the nickname "Hanna the Barbarian."
Staying in Canton for the 1896 campaign, McKinley spoke to 750,000 visitors. William Jennings "Cross of Gold" Bryan, on the other hand, traveled 18,000 miles in three months and spoke to 5 million people. AND LOST. Laziness: it gets the job done.
The seizing of Spanish treasure galleons made the switch to the gold standard in 1900 possible.
Was elected president of the Canton YMCA following his famous "awkward steam room campaign."
His inaugurals were held in what is now the National Building Museum. Anyone want to meet me there in formal wear and make pretend?
Both of McKinley's children died very young. His wife Ida, who was also dealing with several other deaths in her family, had an emotional breakdown and was withdrawn and sickly for the rest of her life. She spent most of her time crocheting more than 4,000 pairs of booties. No joke, it's just a sad story.
As president, McKinley actually dedicated Grant's tomb in New York City in 1897. Grant's zombie did not return the favor in 1907.
Avid readers of my schedule (hi Mom) know that I'm in Detroit at Mark Ridley's Comedy Castle. Mark Ridley is often credited with inventing the three-comedian show format, which would make him the guy who wrote my job description. We'll only hold him responsible for the 20-30 minutes of comedy part, not the driving hundreds of miles around the Midwest visiting museums you couldn't drag most people to with a team of oxen part. Here's the defensive perimiter of the castle:
I'm working with two very pleasant guys, Dave Logan and Dean Edwards. Usually there's one a-hole on any given comedy show, so if you do the math, that makes me the bad guy. But you already knew that. My bad-boy antics are legendary in the roadhouses and brothels located next to the boring museums throughout the Midwest.
Dean's been on TV a lot, but he still enjoys PF Chang's. That's what we call keepin' it real. Also, he only punched me a little after I took this photograph, which I really appreciate. Seriously, he's a really nice guy.
Finally, enjoy these beautiful images of the blossoming of springtime in the greater Detroit area.
Goosed
I was jogging on 14 Mile Road today when I saw two geese crossing the sidewalk ahead of me. Geese are the drunk abusive uncles of the bird kingdom, but I didn't go around. As I passed them, one of the geese stared at me and hissed. You expect that from geese. What I wasn't expecting: looking back over my shoulder, I saw the goose start running toward me. Then it took off and flew directly toward me while hissing, about a foot off the ground. It looked beyond pissed, like a celebrity charging a paparazzi.
I outweigh most geese and I'm pretty sure I could kill one in a fight. I don't know that I'd want to be the guy on the side of a highway covered with goose blood at five in the afternoon, but I know I could be that guy.
But instead, I ran. As fast as I could. Normally I have about three gears; today I dropped it into something like sixth. I was like a gazelle, only with two legs, and in Detroit, and wearing a Nike sweatshirt, and not graceful, and on the slower end of the gazelle spectrum, like maybe a gazelle with rheumatoid arthritis. I was actually frightened, and I distinctly remember thinking: "Not in the face." The goose gave up after 10 seconds and went back to join his goose bastard friend.
There are two ways of looking at this. A) I'm a coward. B) I am faster than a flying bird.
There's a particular story posted on the walls of the Gerald R. Ford Museum. If it's not true, it should be:
Campaigning to upset a Republican congressman in Michigan's 5th District, Ford promised a farmer that, if he won the primary, he would milk that farmer's cows for two weeks. The day after his victory, he showed up at the farm at 4:30 in the morning. When the shocked farmer asked why he was there, he simply said that he meant to keep his campaign promises.
You know how girls complain to their nice guy friends about how there are no nice guys, and then proceed to date community college burnouts with standing appointments at the free clinic? Gerald Ford was the nice guy president. For whatever reason the country wasn't ready to date him. But 30 years later, the country is living alone in a trailer park with a wardrobe that's mostly stretchpants. It spits in its hand, puts out a menthol cigarette in that glob of spit, sighs and thinks: "I wonder what Gerald Ford is up to?" Bad news, country: he's dead.
But he wasn't always! He was born in 1913 in Nebraska as Leslie Lynch King Jr., but his dad was somewhat of an abusive craphead, so his mom kicked Sr. to the curb while getting the family up to Grand Rapids, Michigan. When she married Gerald R. Ford, Leslie was renamed, becoming Gerald R. Ford Jr.
From then on "Junie" had a rock-solid textbook Midwestern upbringing (meaning he was beaten regularly with a corn stalk). He worked odd jobs to get through high school, became an Eagle Scout, had some religion in him ... and as a star center he led his high school football team to the 1930 state championship. Ford landed a $100 scholarship to the University of Michigan and waited tables in the cafeteria to make ends meet; he was a star on a mostly crappy football team and pledged DKE. He talked his way into Yale Law School, enlisted in the Navy during World War II, served with distinction and came home to Grand Rapids and a law firm gig; he met Betty Bloomer Warren and married her as he was getting ready for his first run at Congress. In the House, Ford made quick friends with a few other young legislators -- Richard Nixon, for one, and fellow Navy veteran John F. Kennedy. He worked his way up the ladder with a reputation for honesty and integrity, becoming the minority leader; his dream was to be Speaker, but when it looked like a GOP majority wasn't coming anytime soon, he promised Betty that he'd leave politics when his term ended in 1976.
And that's when it hit the fan. Nixon actually asked Ford for recommendations to replace Spiro Agnew; he declined to name himself, but his colleagues didn't hesitate. Then Nixon imploded, leaving Ford suddenly holding the bag as the first ever president never elected on a national ticket. He was the head of a party in total disgrace, he was facing a hostile Congress with a huge majority, inflation was crippling the economy and the Vietnam War was in its last gasps. When your inaugural includes the line "Our long national nightmare is over," you've got a tough row to hoe.
The thing is, he did a pretty good job of it. He took a ton of crap for pardoning Nixon, but with his openness and integrity he restored a lot of confidence in the White House, (probably) helped bring inflation down and kept America active in global affairs. When he decided to run for election in 1976 he managed to beat back Ronald Reagan (whom Ford had recommended as a possible Agnew replacement) in the primary and almost overcame a huge deficit in the polls against Carter (a switch of 9,000 votes in two states would have won the election for Ford). The guy was holding a pair of twos, he didn't believe in bluffing, and he still almost won the hand fate dealt him.
But we mostly remember him for falling down stairs, and you can recreate the Gerald Ford experience at the museum with any one of their interactive staircases. Bring the kids!
Honestly, it's a fantastic museum -- without being too stuffy, it's packed with info on Ford, his family and the historical context he worked in. There are some really cool artifacts, including the pen used to pardon Nixon, the .45 Squeaky Froam carried in her attempt to assassinate Ford, and the staircase from the roof of the U.S. Embassy in Saigon (above) which took the last refugees and diplomats to the escape helicopter. They also have nifty recreations of the the Oval Office (as redecorated by Betty) and the Cabinet Room:
You're allowed to play make-believe in the Cabinet Room, but for some reason if you hope the rail around the Oval Office, curse into the Hotline and pretend you're initiating a preemptive nuclear strike, the security guards get uppity. Bleh.
There's probably a little bit of whitewashing of the Ford image going on, but for the most part the museum seems to offer an honest assessment of the man and his career. That seems appropriate for a guy who built a career around honesty. Ford is currently waiting for Betty in a pine-covered knoll next to the museum, with a simple epitaph: "Lives Committed to God, Country and Love." And the more you learn about Ford, as cyncial as we are about politicians, you really do believe it. If all this sounds schmaltzy, well ... I guess you always remember your first president fondly. Well done, Jerry.
FUN FORD FACTS!
After his junior year in high school, Ford had a 40-cents-an-hour gig at his stepdad's paint and varnish company. After four months of sniffing fumes, he decided on a career in public service.
Coming out of college in the 1930s he was offered $2,400 guaranteed contracts (plus travel expenses!) by the Green Bay Packers and Detroit Lions. In 2005, the Lions repeated the offer, because their offensive line needed the upgrade.
In light of his non-elected status, Ford refused to have "Hail to the Chief" played at any presidential function. Instead, he had bands play the University of Michigan fight song ("Hail to the Victors"), or sometimes, Parliament's "If It Don't Fit Don't Force It."
Became the minority leader thanks to vote-wrangling by Rep. Bob Dole, who would eventually be his 1976 running mate and 2004 Viagra hook-up.
Gerald's honeymoon with Betty was a trip to see a University of Michigan home game, followed by an outdoor rally in the freezing cold for GOP presidential candidate Thomas Dewey, followed by no sex for 10 months.
Ford hoped the pardon of Nixon would help the national healing process, but it dropped his approval rating by 21 points. The executive order that followed -- to put Nixon through a coast-to-coast spanking machine -- was sadly deemed unconstitutional.
When the pen used to pardon Nixon is held upside down, the lady's bikini disappears.
Despite his public image as a klutz, Ford was one of our most athletic presidents, behind only Teddy Roosevelt and Chester "Iron Thighs" Arthur.
Teenage daughter Susan had her senior prom in the East Room of the White House, follwed by her first real groping in the Blue Room, followed by the first beating up of her date by the Secret Service on the South Lawn.
There were two attempts on Ford's life in the same month, but hippies never really follow through on anything.
The three rules in the household of Ford's childhood: tell the truth, work hard, and come to dinner on time. These rules greatly shaped Ford's character, because the punishment for breaking them was death by genital electrocution.
Members of Ford's executive branch and cabinet included Alan Greenspan, George H.W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld and Brent Scowcroft, and as BFFs they all made sure to KIT.
Greetings from the home of J.J. Johnson! I'm just wrapping up a two-day layover here, waiting for a gig in South Bend to start. I'm staying with my "friend" John Garrett. You'll notice I put friend in quotes, because John isn't really my friend. I just pretend that he is so that I have somewhere to stay when I need to kill time in the Midwest. But Chris, what if John reads your blog? Well, if he cared that much, maybe then I wouldn't have to put "friend" in quotes in the first place.
Seriously, John is a great guy and if you are planning some kind of comedy show where there are lots of people recovering from heart surgery and you don't want them to laugh TOO hard, then he's your guy. Just a notch below mediocre -- he found that niche and filled the hell out of it.
Really seriously, John and I get along great, as you can tell from this MP3 interview I did with him a few years ago or our movie project. He's a peach.
We went for a run today, and I never realized how much better a workout is when you're holding hands with someone the whole way. Smooches.
Lunch Buddies!
After our exhausting workout, John and I had lunch with fellow comedian Dan Davidson, who I like very much, because he has a worse Web-site name than me.
Dan believes that the world will end in 2012, and I have to say it's a refreshing attitude. I personally have been structuring all my financial planning around this belief. Don't let me down, Dan.
Crown Hill
Indianapolis, like most major American cities, has its fair share of dead people, and the creme de la dead people are in Crown Hill cemetery. With my natural affinity for dead people and boring activities, I was ALL OVER IT.
Not in a disrespectful way, though. I wasn't humping tombstones. I did take some pictures, though. Here are the highlights. First up ... YOU GUESSED IT! A U.S. PRESIDENT!
That's the final resting place of one Benjamin Harrison, the grandson of William Henry, our last bearded commander-in-chief and the man who kept Grover Cleveland's chair warm. You'll note that "president" doesn't get top billing on his marker. Instead, that honor goes to "lawyer and publicist." Yes, publicist. Look for time-traveling Benjamin Harrison on the next season of "Entourage." That's how desperate they are to tweak the ratings. \ Not pictured: the line "Statesman, yet friend to truth." Apparently, the statesmen of the 1890s needed better publicists.
But what about people who were ALMOST president?
What you're seeing above is an obelisk for Thomas Hendricks, the first vice president of Grover Cleveland, and then some kind of a Gothic structure that, as far as I know, never held any political office of any kind. You might not know this, but Indiana is the LAND OF VICE PRESIDENTS! I learned this visiting the Dan Quayle Center / Vice Presidential Museum in Huntington last summer; somehow, I completely failed to write that visit up on ye olde blog, which is inexcusable, because it was great. Only New York (11) has more than Indiana (5), and New York had a head start. Three of the four dead Indiana VPs (Dan Quayle is the one who's still kicking) are at Crown Hill. I'll spare you the photos of Teddy Roosevelt VP Charles Fairbanks and Wilson VP Thomas Marshall, but I will note that there's no mention of the job on Marshall's crypt, though he was probably the closest of the three to actually being president (Wilson had a massive stroke in office and basically hid it).
Two more to go. Check this bad boy out:
That's me trying to look impressed in front of the grave of Richard Jordan Gatling, a man who has filled more than a few cemeteries in his own right by inventing the first successful machine gun. He also invented something called a "wheat drill." Which is either something used to drill wheat, or a drill made entirely of wheat. Wikipedia isn't entirely clear on this.
I was sort of hoping that he'd have a gun turret for a tombstone, but taste always seems to prevail in these situations. Sigh. And speaking of a depressing amount of taste ...
... here's the one prison that John Dillinger's gang couldn't break him out of. It's sort of reserved, considering he was one of the most notorious criminals of the 20th century. I guess I was hoping for a tomb that loooked like a bank vault. Double sigh.
I'm assuming the poem is for someone else in Dillinger's family that is buried nearby. If not, there's a creepy story that needs to be told. Alternative weekly newspaper for the Indianapolis area, I'm looking at you.
Morty's Comedy Joint
I closed out my Tuesday by checking out the open mic at Indy's newest club, Morty's Comedy Joint. If you're ever in the area, check the place out -- it's a very nice setup for a comedy room. The week's headliner closed out the show -- Chad Daniels, who apparently just had his Comedy Central special air. I've seen his name on the Baltimore Comedy Factory calendar before, but I've never seen him live. He's definitely worth checking out.
"I Take Requests." April 5. DC Improv Lounge. Get your tickets today. The grand finale is going to be ... well, about 4 minutes long, and that's as much as I'm willing to tell you right now.
Well, Shoot
Let's be honest: bad things happen. And when they do, you need a friend like Don Davis.
Because Don will sell you a gun. And for Don, it's not even about milking you for every last dollar: "I don't want to make any money, folks, I just love to sell guns." This quote is written on the side of Don's, which is in the center of Indianapolis. I drove by it the other day. If you aren't in a buying mood, Don has guns for rent! I believe the rentals can only be used on Don's range, but in the interest of science someone should go in and ask if they can get a gun for just 15 minutes or so.
When you visit the web site, be sure to read the news section, in which Don has placed a monument to the Second Amendment on his lawn, and oddly enough some people don't like it. It has inspired me to build my own monument, maybe to the Third Amendment, on my porch. No soldiers shall be quartered in my living room during peacetime, dammit. And if you want to argue about it, remember: I know where to find Don Davis.
Signs of the Times
If you take I-65 south from Lafayette, Indiana, around mile 130 there's an exit. A sign at the end of the exit ramp points left for Whitestown, and right for Brownsburg.
WHEN WILL THE HATRED END?
Irish
I'm in South Bend for a few days, and I actually made it over to the Notre Dame campus on Wednesday. They have a golf course. Which must come in handy when their sports teams crap out of the postseason.
HAH! That's right, I went to RICHMOND! Fear the Spider.
Please note that I actually love Notre Dame and all of its fans.
Sneak Previews
I'm happy to be wrong, but the preview to "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" (even the R-rated preview online) doesn't look good. Kristen Bell in a bikini looks good, for sure, but that's about it. So, the question is: will I spend $10 and take two hours out of my life to see what I think will a bad movie, just to see Kristen Bell in a bikini? Ordinarily, that's a slam dunk yes. But Judd Apatow movies usually have penises in them. So now we're pitting heterosexuality vs. my general desire not to see penises other than my own. This could get ugly. I'll keep you posted.
Also, did you notice there's a sequel to "Crank" coming out, still starring Jason Statham, who (SPOILER ALERT) fell out of a helicopter and died on the pavement at the end of "Crank"? Excellent.
Also also, if you ever want to feel really white, listen to black people discuss Tyler Perry movies. Every time a Tyler Perry movie comes out, it's the No. 1 or 2 movie in the country despite almost no advertising (church groups do great word-of-mouth campaigns). The movies get mostly bad reviews, but the target audience evaluates them on entirely different criteria that a lot of critics simply cannot understand; hence their surprise at the success of the movies, even though this pattern has repeated about five times now. Hearing a thoughtful discussion on the merits of a Tyler Perry movie is, for most white people, like trying to understand string theory with a 4-beer buzz. I expect black people have gone through the same thing listening to white people discuss the Lord of the Rings. I'd like to know what the Democratic presidential candidates are going to do to fix this and bring us together.
Finally, "Superhero Movie": Did Leslie Nielsen make some bad investments? Gambling problem? What?
One of the people I'm working with this week got a Myspace message from an old college acquaintance, a woman he had dated. After a few, "Hey, how have you been" exchanges, she says (paraphrasing): "You're probably wondering why I'm writing. Our son is now 19 and of legal age and he's asking questions about his dad. I'm not sure what I want to tell him. I can send you pictures if you like."
Since he was not previously aware of any son, this was mildly upsetting, in the way that murder-suicide pacts can also be mildly upsetting.
I watched this guy, who is married with a family, agonzie over what to do for about two hours; he then went back to his hotel and had to sleep on it. Finally, today, the woman revealed that she was kidding. There is no 19-year-old son.
So: funny or horrible? Right now I'm voting for "one of the most horribly evil pranks you could ever pull." In ten years I might change my mind.
Good sign: Ryan Zimmerman hits a two-out home run in the 9th to win the first ever regular-season game at Nationals Park.
Bad sign: He hits the home run into a row of empty seats. Yes, a row of empty seats, in the FIRST EVER REGULAR SEASON GAME AT A NEW STADIUM.
Yeah, it's a school night, and yeah, it's late. But what self-respecting fan leaves that game early? The stadium sold out in six minutes. How could you care enough to get a ticket and then NOT STAY FOR THE WHOLE GAME? Dear god.
I would have liked to see the faces of the people in those seats when they got home, saw the replay and realized that they had a chance to catch a historic home run ball.
Never leave early. The Pirates are consistently one of the worst teams in baseball, but my brother stuck around a game a few years ago saw something like a six-run comeback victory in the bottom of the ninth. NEVER LEAVE EARLY.
Legal Stuff: If you have questions about this Web site, why? You should spend your time questioning the moral nature of any god who would let Chris White exist. But anyhow ... copyright 2009, Chris White Sucks Inc.
FUN MCKINLEY FACTS!
But we mostly remember him for falling down stairs, and you can recreate the Gerald Ford experience at the museum with any one of their interactive staircases. Bring the kids!
Let's be honest: bad things happen. And when they do, you need a friend like 
August 2009: Jefferson.
Fall 2009: comic interviews on the podcast. 
